Spring Fever
by OverThexM00N
Summary: PreRent. High schooler April meets Roger in a treehouse and realizes she's known him for longer than she thought. But what changed that sweet little boy she used to play with into such a cold young man?


**Disclaimer:** Jonathan Larson's children, not mine.

**A/N:** Read and review please. Really need some criticism and suggestions as to what I should do next.

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The empty suburban streets echoed with her every step. April swayed on the sidewalk, appearing drunk but only dancing, completely sober, to the tunes of the party that failed to leave her head. It had been a fun night, even when she refused to drink the beer. Her friends didn't get on her case about it and most of them found the taste to be disgusting and went off with April to play Twister, leaving their beers behind. April was proud of herself, and she knew her mother would be too, that is, if she had actually intended to tell her there had been alcohol at the party. She'd never be allowed to attend another one of Alison's parties again if her mother knew what Alison could get away with.

April gave herself a hug as she continued to careen from side to side, humming the song that had been playing when she exited the oppressive atmosphere of teen hormones and stepped out into the cool, crisp night. The volume of her reverberating footsteps was heightened as she passed by an open field bordered by trees. Despite her fear of this area April stopped and stared into the blackness, myriad insects sending a chorus of chirps and buzzes into the sky. Ever since she had seen a sick baby deer dying in this field, covered in merciless flies and omitting lamentable hollers of misery, she tried to avoid passing the area at all costs. But tonight she had been so engrossed in her thoughts of the party her body had switched to autopilot, taking her down the most direct path home, making it inevitable that she passed this field.

She didn't know why she was staring at it. It left her with a sense of dread, but she hadn't experienced that feeling since she was younger. Now that she was in her late teens fright had become a thrilling natural high of life. She felt she couldn't turn her eyes away from the grassy clearing.

Amidst the odd warbling of the various bugs that resided in the clearing, something resembling music, real music, drifted over the willowy yellow grass, reaching April's ears. She strained her eyes and saw that one of the treetops was incased in wooden boards that seemed to form a small house. A tree house? In _this_ abominable place?

Now that her attention was brought to it she noticed the flicker of candlelight in the square of negative space that served as a window. Someone was delicately picking at an acoustic guitar, producing a calming sound that could only be heard if one really listened. And April listened.

Ignoring the swarm of bugs that ricocheted off her exposed ankles as she stepped into the tall grass, April made her way across the field, her chin lifted and her gaze locked on the strange tree house. Stepping over anthills and other hindering structures of nature, April stopped before the tree, walking into something soft. Backing away she found it to be a ladder made of feeble rope, leading up to the tree house, where the music had become a little more furious, with jarring chords breaking the serenity of the night. April undid the straps of her sandals, which would make the journey up the rope more difficult, and gingerly placed her bare foot on the lowest rung. Taking a deep breath, she leapt up, grabbing onto the dangling ladder and pulled herself up carefully.

With shaking hands she grasped the edge of the entrance, her toes curling around the bristly rope. Peering over the splintering wood she could make out the silhouette of a man against the dim candlelight, but before she could see anymore or even utter a greeting the decrepit rope beneath her feet snapped. She yelped as the air rushed up all around her, preparing herself for the jolting collision with the ground.

When the impact never shook her body she became confused. Suddenly she realized there was a rough, calloused hand clutching her own, pulling her less than gently up into the wooden abode. She lay stunned, eyes knowing nothing but the rickety ceiling until a face came into her line of vision.

Shrill green eyes, harsher than the chords April had heard earlier, watched her emotionlessly. Scraggly bleached hair fell on either side of the face that hovered above her, a face like none she had ever seen before yet so familiar all at once. Teeth bit scarred lips as words were contemplated, then given up on as the young man disappeared. April sat up in time to see him retreat to the corner, pick up his guitar, and point silently to the hole in the floor before she could even utter a thanks, his eyes never returning to her.

Even in the shadows April knew who this was. "Roger?"

Roger, the boy from her school, quiet to the point of being invisible. The boy her mother set up play dates with when they had been in preschool together. Ever since she entered high school she hadn't seen much of him anymore. In fact she had never had a class with him until this semester, which had just started along with the arrival of spring. Music theory. The class was small, only eight kids including Roger and herself, and when the teacher was too lazy to leave his office the group sat in an awkward silence, except for two grungy boys who would have the most inappropriate conversations to have during such a silence.

Roger rarely went to the board or raised his hand, but their teacher made it his business to let everyone know how well Roger was doing. He often told Roger he had a good ear during their melodic dictation tests, and Roger would just smirk bitterly in response when he received envious glares from the other students. April did miserably with dictation of any kind, but she never resented Roger for his talent.

The green eyes seemed to shimmer like a cat's in the darkness, scanning over April. "Yeah?" he asked cautiously, his voice slightly hoarse. April could barely remember a time where he'd spoken more than just a couple words at a time to her.

"It's April," she said with a smile. "Remember me?"

He stared dully.

"We used to play together. Long time ago."

"…"

"Music theory?" she tried.

Silence. "Whatever."

And, as though she wasn't even there, he picked up his guitar and began to play, closing his eyes. April was slightly offended at this blatant attempt at giving the cold shoulder. She didn't accept rejection well.

"Hel_lo_," she called, getting to her knees and shuffling towards him as he stopped to look at her. "I'm still here, you know."

"I'm still trying to figure out why," he snapped, throwing in a few discordant notes to mirror his mood.

April felt her eyes water for reasons beyond her understanding. The last time she had truly spoken to him, Roger had been a sweet little boy, with tamer hair and a tamer disposition. He had picked flowers for her every spring up until April had gone off to a Catholic school from first to eighth grade. _Well, people change,_ she thought tartly. _I can't say that I haven't changed either._

"I'm sorry to have bothered you," April muttered with a scowl, swinging her slender legs over lowering them through the egress. "I'll be leaving you alone now."

No goodbye. No acknowledgement of her ever having said anything. The music never ceased as April made her way back down the ladder. She suspected he hadn't even looked up to watch her go. Not that she cared. She slid down the rope, her hands raw by the time she reached the ground. Just as her bare feet touched the dirt the music came to a sudden halt. There were some audible footsteps as April sat in the wispy grass to put her sandals back on, and then something landed on her shoulder.

Leaping up in surprise, only one sandal completely on while the other dangled from her foot, she smacked at whatever had touched her. It fell to the ground with a light thwack, giving April the impression it was a really big bug. But when she went to annihilate it with her heeled sandal she saw that whatever it was, it wasn't living. In fact, it was very, _very_ dead. She picked it up in her hands and observed the ash black cluster, on the verge of turning to dust, as the music picked up where it had left off.

In her hand she held a bouquet of dead flowers.


End file.
